Kyzyl Oi to Issyk Kul
Following what proved to be a pretty bruising few days on horseback (reference Helen’s hips, thighs and backside, plus the significant mental trauma of fighting with our horses and probably losing the hotel’s dog), we thought a day out at a festival might be a useful distraction. We’d heard about a tiny village, Kyzyl Oi (the ‘red place’), that puts on an annual celebration of Kyrgyz arts and sports, partly to keep traditions alive and healthy, partly to earn an income from the nascent tourism industry in this part of the country.
We organised a lift with the hotel owner’s sister and brother-in-law, who were going to the festival to see their mother performing in an accordion accompanied singing group. 2 hours later, after a drive through amazing mountainous scenery that got redder and redder as we ascended through the valley leading to the village, we arrived at a small field next to a wide and shallow river. A banner announced we’d got to the right place and a small group of musicians greeted us as we coughed-up a rather extortionate amount of money for our tickets.
En route to Kyzyl Oi village
En route to Kyzyl Oi village
As usual in these parts, nothing starts on time and we had to wait for an hour and a half for a local VIP to grace us with his presence. To our slight dismay, more and more tourists turned up until we outnumbered the locals by quite a margin – no exclusive Kyrgyz experience for us here then. In the meantime we had some free fried Borsok balls (made of dough, thank god) and tea that tasted like tepid mushroom soup. A few tourists were kicked off the best chairs in order to seat the honoured guest who’d eventually deigned to turn up and then the entertainment started.
An unfathomable pageant of Kyrgyz myths and legends kicked us off, with actors dressed in thick animal hide coats reciting prose and performing strange warbling songs. Even the locals didn’t pay much attention to this part. Then the musicians started in earnest and treated us to some virtuoso strumming and plucking of their various instruments, complete with exaggerated flourishes of the hands and arms to wonderful theatrical effect. Alas, part way though a procession of horses carrying dismantled yurt parts proved too much of a distraction for most tourists and the musicians were largely left to their own devices as everyone ambled off to watch the yurt being reconstructed.
Recreating the ‘duelling banjos’ scene from Deliverance
As a result, most missed the best performance of the day. Our host’s mother, dressed in traditional Kyrgyz costume, singing and swaying with five others to some rather disco-like tunes coming out of their accordion. It was a bit like Boney M, but with old women in outlandish hats. I complimented their performance to her daughter, who was totally thrilled but didn’t get the reference.
“He’s crazy like a fool…” “What about Daddy Cool…?”
The yurt went up wonky from too many people interfering and instructing. Another tradition, that of introducing a baby to its cradle, was used to divert attention. An unfortunate newborn was stripped of his pants and laid in an elaborate velvet-lined rocking cradle. The officiating elderly lady recited several incantations, then produced a device that looked like a small pipe. She placed the device over the poor kid’s nether regions and shoved his little penis up into it (all this being photographed several hundred times by giggling onlookers). Why this was necessary no-one could fathom. The baby was then wrapped up in several layers of cloth and enclosed in a little velvet mini tomb. Everyone left. He might be still there for all we know…
“I knew we should have brought a spirit level…”
“Time to hide your little fella, little fella”
The morning concluded with a traditional dance performance by three young girls. After a while, all the tourists were asked to join in. Many did and flounced around enthusiastically, but then the music suddenly and bizarrely changed pace and we got banging club tunes instead. It seemed totally incongruous, though the youngest amongst them seemed to be really getting into it.
The sporting performances and games after lunch were superb however, with absolutely no concessions for tourism at all – these were serious and mightily competitive endeavours indeed. We’d all traipsed to another field just outside the village and lined up on a banking facing a very dusty training ground. First we were treated to ‘Oodarysh’, a wrestling match between two men on horseback – the aim being to pull your opponent from his horse using a variety of grappling techniques. Several bouts were won by gripping tightly with one hand, correctly positioning the horse, then whipping its backside just enough to unseat the other wrestler as the horse lunged forwards. Very impressive.
Lads out on the pull
A frustrated wrestler bites his horse
Next, the strange game of ‘Kyz Kyymai’. A girl sets off on her horse at a gallop, closely pursued by a bloke on horseback whose aim is to catch her before a certain distance is reached. If he does, he’s rewarded with a kiss. If he fails, they both set off in the opposite direction and she is allowed to whip him as many times as she can. Three couples performed this ritual and on each occasion the men seemed reluctant to catch the women. The women in turn seemed delighted to whip their pursuers, who equally seemed to enjoy the experience. We wondered whether this was actually a game of ritualised sado-masochism dressed up as a traditional sport. Either way it was hugely entertaining.
A skillful, but less thrilling game of ‘Tyin Enmei’ where horse riders pick up coins wrapped in scarves on the floor from their galloping horse was followed by the main event – a seriously violent and intense game of ‘Kok Boru’ (aka ‘Buzkashi’, aka ‘Dead Goat Polo’). Helen talked about the game we saw at Song Kol lake, which was intense enough, but this was at another level. Competitors struggled for an hour in strong heat desperately trying to get their 20kg headless goat carcass onto a raised platform whilst being barged by other horses, mercilessly whipped by their opponents and blinded by swirling dust. For most of the hour, no one managed it. The goat became wet and slippery from patches of mud. No-one could keep hold of it for long. Eventually two team mates managed to grab a bit of goat each and threw the bedragged animal onto their ‘goal’ to a huge roar of appreciation from the assembled onlookers. I’ve rarely seen any game so closely and intensely fought.
Goat carcass retrieved
“The missus’ll never get this in the oven”
We’d intended to get marshrutkas to Lake Issyk Kul, but the taxi-driving brother-in-law was coming out this way anyway, so we paid him the same price as we’d have paid on the bus. We broke down on the way. Without a word, the driver flagged down another car and set off in it. Luckily we’d assumed he’d run out of petrol and waited for an hour for him to return, having to fend off several eager well-wishers trying to help us out in the meantime.
Lake Issyk Kul was always going to be our first destination on this trip where we intended to seriously chill out, so we were keen to do exactly that. We stayed in a yurt camp on the shore, drank beer in the rustic bar and chatted to our fellow travellers. My most exciting moment was going for an early morning swim whereby I slipped on the rocks, fell into the lake and catapulted my flip flops away from me. Luckily no-one was around to witness my escapade, which was compensation at least, as I must have looked like a complete dick.
Bel Tam yurt camp, Lake Issyk Kul
Bel Tam yurt camp, Lake Issyk Kul
Lake Issyk Kul
An unusual few days of doing totally bugger all and it was great. We got back into it on the way to a town called Barskoon, set back from the lake but home to a yurt building workshop we’d been keen to visit. On the way we stopped at Skazka (aka ‘fairy-tale’) Canyon, a strange and beautiful red & yellow hue’d rock formation that resembles a mini version of the rainbow mountains in Peru and watched several other visitors get stuck on precipitous paths they’d brought the wrong footwear for.
Skazka Canyon
Skazka Canyon
The yurt workshop proved very worthwhile. We joined a visiting tour group at a firm that makes and sells yurts and learned how to make the many felt and woven materials that go into decorating them. We then got our hands dirty with some proper yurt building in the yard outside where we became proficient in attaching ‘uuks’ (the long red struts forming the roof) to the circular ‘tunduk’ at the apex of the building and fastening them to the ‘kerege’, the trellis like structure forming the sides. Our collective creation was solid and strong and perfectly level. We’ve stayed in many a yurt now and have often wondered how they’re really constructed (the demo at Kyzyl Oi offered no explanation and was somewhat haphazard), so exploring techniques and understanding the rituals behind it all was welcome and fascinating.
On to Karakol next, where we’re intending to do a four-day trek up to the mountain lake of Ala-Kol. Yet another challenge Helen’s persuaded me to undertake……
Traditional house, Barskoon
Building a yurt: adding the door covering
Footnote: We’re very pleased to inform that Rosie, the lost dog from our horse trek, eventually turned up after a week’s absence, apparently unperturbed by the adventure. We are pretty relieved I can tell you…
Simon (4th July 2025)
What another great experience,I will expect you to errect a yurt when you get home. You will also be getting horses to have a game of coin picking .😉. Glad Rosie caught you up..xx
I’ll expect a horse shaped Christmas present then…..
Looks like such a beautiful place and an exciting day out.
Glad you’ve had chance to relax a bit before the next challenge and happy to hear Rosie turned up… I wonder what she’s been doing all week 🤔
Yeah, there was a lot of cavorting with other boy dogs when she was with us, so perhaps there was a ‘holiday romance’..?!?